Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Marc!” Wilhelmina's voice carries loudly throughout the offices of Mode, and even though Marc is no longer her assistant, he still finds himself running through the corridors when she beckons. Then again, so do all Wilhelmina's employees who want to stay employed. He passes his old desk, now empty, though the chair is still spinning, as if someone left it in a hurry, and skids into Wilhelmina's office, slightly out of breath.

She slams down a magazine on her desk. “What is this?”

He can clearly see that it's the latest issue of Vogue, but he recalls the time Elle failed to name Wilhelmina as one of the most influential women in fashion and she spent a month demoting anyone who dared to mention the E word, so he's questioning whether the obvious answer is the right one. Then he notices exactly what her well manicured nail is pointing at.

“Ooh, pretty star signs. Hey, aren't we doing something like th...” he trails off once he realizes the implications.

A recent reader poll showed that the average Mode reader wasn't loyal to a satisfying degree, and that they wanted more ongoing series when it came to fashion editorials. Themes were in, and Wilhelmina, who despised catering to the readers, reluctantly approved one of the editors' idea for a fashion/accessory/beauty spread based on the zodiac.

“Has Veronica seen this?” Marc asks, and Wilhelmina underlines the name on the byline with her nail so fiercely that the page tears. “Oh.”

“She quit before I even had the chance to fire her,” Wilhelmina spits, and sends the magazine to the floor with an angry sweep of her hand. She seems more upset by this than by the actual betrayal.

“Wili, it's okay,” Marc says soothingly, carefully picking the magazine up and hiding it behind his back. “I'm sure you can find someone else to fire. I noticed that Grace from Style was wearing flats this morning.”

Wilhelmina looks temporarily mollified. “That does sound promising,” she says. “But we still need a new idea for a series, and we need it now.” She sits down, neatly smoothing her skirt, and looks straight at him. “Marc, I'm putting you in charge.”

His knees give out under him and he sinks into the visitor's chair, swallowing hard. “Me?”

“Apparently the photographer is already booked, so I need you to work with him. We need a theme that we can use for at least six issues.”

“Wili, this is huge,” Marc says, overwhelmed.

She shrugs lightly and picks up the phone. “I thought you wanted more responsibility around here. If you don't think you can do it...”

“No!” He stands up straight and resists the urge to salute. “I can do this. I won't let you down.”

“Very well.” She fixes him with an intent look and then nods. “See that you don't. I want to fire someone, and right now I'm not too bothered about who.”

Veronica has cleaned out her desk meticulously, and Marc's attempts to find out the name of the photographer she booked proves futile. No one seems to know anything, Veronica clearly kept things well under wraps, and he can't even track down the contract. He's starting to doubt that a photographer was ever hired when he hears raised voices from the reception. The new receptionist used to work in a women's prison, and is of the opinion that the same regulations should apply to Mode, and this won't be the first time Marc has had to intervene and smooth ruffled feathers.

He hurries out toward the reception area, only to turn on his heel and quickly dash back around the corner, pressing himself to the wall, fervently hoping he hasn't been seen.

Of all the photographers in the world...

He hasn't seen Cliff for two years, since the day Cliff walked out on him without a word, and he hasn't allowed himself to think about him for almost that long.

“Look, she's late for our meeting, and she isn't answering her phone, so I just want to know what's going on,” Cliff is saying, and from the sound of his voice he's getting tired of explaining himself.

“I'm very sorry, sir,” the receptionist says in clipped tones, “but as the person you are inquiring after is no longer an employee of this company I can not allow you access to the premises.”

“This is ridiculous!”

“Sorry, sir, but I don't make the rules,” she says, except as far as Marc knows in this case she clearly did.

He takes a couple of deep breaths, and turns the corner, bravely closing the short distance to the reception desk.

“Cliff,” he says, and his former boyfriend looks up and freezes for a moment, before nodding his head stiffly.

“Marc.”

“I'll take care of this,” Marc says to the receptionist. She gives him a look which seems to indicate that if this somehow leads to the graphics department trying to stage a riot, he will be the one to blame.

He shows Cliff through to the editors' room, trying to come up with something to say, but it's Cliff who breaks the silence first.

“This is weird. I know I shouldn't be surprised to see you, but still. Veronica told me you made editor. That's great, Marc, I know how hard you worked for it.” Cliff seems genuinely pleased for him, and even though Marc listens for a trace of bitterness or resentment in his voice, he can't find one.

“Thank you,” he says, grabbing the chair from Veronica's empty desk and giving it to Cliff before sitting down himself. “You look good. Really,” he insists when Cliff looks doubtful. “It's nice to see you.”

It is. Cliff looks almost exactly like he did two years ago, with a scruffy beard and slightly longer hair, and a horrifyingly ugly brown corduroy jacket. Marc wants to reach out and pet it.

“You too,” Cliff says, and then shakes his head briskly. “But what's going on? Where's Veronica?”

Marc grimaces apologetically and flips through the pages of Vogue until he finds the damage. Cliff gazes at it silently for a minute and then looks up at Marc.

“She didn't,” he says in disbelief.

“She did,” Marc confirms.

“We worked for weeks on this! Actually, this is a pale shade of what we worked on for weeks!” He stabs the already torn page angrily with his index finger. “Look at the crap lighting on this!”

“The good news is we have another chance of coming up with something new. The bad news is we only have three days to do it in,” Marc says.

Cliff's finger stops mid stab, and Marc takes a deep breath.

“Look, given our history, I understand if you don't want to work with me. I can ask one of the other editors to take over, if you would prefer that.”

It would mean a serious blow to his career, it's not something Wilhelmina would forget or forgive, but he figures he owes Cliff at least that. That and a hell of a lot more.

Cliff traces the headline of the article as he thinks, and Marc is already preparing how to grovel properly before Wilhelmina when Cliff finally looks up.

“No, it's fine,” he says and Marc's heart drops into his stomach.

“Really?”

“Yeah.” Cliff even smiles a little. “You always had opinions on my photo shoots, anyway. Sometimes you even had a point.” He sticks out his hand, and Marc, after discreetly wiping his own hand on his pants, shakes it.

The rumor that Wilhelmina is looking for someone to sack has spread like a wildfire throughout Mode. People are running in and out of the editors' room, and every single conference room is filled with representatives from the different departments, all trying to look busy and vital to the future of the magazine. It's proving impossible to find a quiet corner for them to work in. Marc briefly thinks about the secret sex dungeon, but quickly suppresses that chain of thought, and suggests his own apartment.

“Sure,” Cliff agrees, after they've even been kicked out of the supply closet by a grumpy cleaning lady. “It shouldn't take too long.”

Three hours later, they have nothing. Every single idea they've had so far has been discarded as a) boring b) stupid c) done or d) what the fuck? Marc has found a rerun of Project Runway on TV, and they're quietly watching, hoping that Tim Gunn's mantra of “Make it work!” will somehow inspire them. Two hours after that they have abandoned Tim Gunn and moved straight on to vodka. Marc is lying on the couch, head dangling over the armrest.

“Goddesses,” he says, admiring the upside down view of the apartment.

“No,” Cliff says from the other end of the couch, where he's rooting through the box of Amanda's emergency snack stash.

“Fairy tales.”

“No.”

“Deadly sins.”

“No.”

“Music genres.”

“No.”

“Natural disasters.”

Cliff grabs hold of his feet. “Marc. Stop naming America's Next Top Model shoots, or I will throw you to the floor.”

Marc quickly shuts up, even though the images the threat is producing are rather enticing. He is in so much trouble. The alcohol was clearly a stupid idea. It's bringing up all kinds of hazy memories from the year he spent with Cliff. Then he can't help himself.

“They so did the star signs one on Top Model.” The hard wooden floor is nowhere near as exciting as it was in his thoughts.

Two hours later and everything is becoming slightly blurry. Marc is pacing back and forth, desperately trying to think of something, anything that there's more than six of. There are things, he's sure, but not a single one comes to mind. He's beginning to envision a future of living on the street, giving botox injections for change.

“Quit moving,” Cliff groans and throws a pillow in his general direction. “Your shirt is giving me a headache!”

Marc stops abruptly and looks down at his stunning, if rather colorful, shirt.

“It's looks like someone smashed a rainbow in tiny little pieces,” Cliff clarifies when Marc looks at him questioningly.

“Ooh, fashion critique!” Marc quips. “I like it!” He snaps his fingers and points to Cliff. “Quick! Tell me something there's more than six of!”

Cliff looks stunned and then blurts out: “Days of the week!”

Marc sighs. “And what are we supposed to do with that? Dress models up in calenders?”

“Well, Monday's blue... and then I've got nothing,” Cliff admits. “Tuesdays have always struck me as sort of beige.”

Something stirs in Marc's memory, a vague idea forming. He tries to hang on to it as he makes a beeline for his laptop. It's on the sofa table, and well there he stumbles, and falls over, landing on top of Cliff. The feeling of Cliff's body under his is at the same time familiar, tempting and very, very awkward. The awkwardness wins and he scrambles to get up, mumbling a frantic apology.

“It's okay,” Cliff says quickly, looking flushed, and Marc tries not to read anything into that. He hands Marc the laptop. “Did you need this?”

“Yes!” Marc tries to collect his thoughts. “When I was a kid, my mom had a cat.” The mention of his mother delivers the same stirring of anger and sorrow as always, but he's getting a lot of practice at shuffling unwanted feelings to the back of his mind today.

“Didn't we scrap the idea of animals already?”

“Well, she had a lot of cats,” Marc continues, ignoring Cliff's input, “but this one was called Monday's Child, because mom always said it was so fair of face.”

It had been, at least for a cat, until it had gotten into a fight and had half its ear torn off. He'd never seen that cat again. It hadn't returned from its trip to the vet.

“It was from some verse, or nursery rhyme.”

He types the phrase into Wikipedia's search bar, and is instantly rewarded. He reads the verse through, and then wordlessly angles the laptop in Cliff's direction.

After reading it, Cliff looks up at Marc.

“That's perfect,” he says simply.

Marc can feel a hopeful smile growing on his face. “It really is, isn't it?”

Cliff nods. “There is so much we can do with this.”

They've both instantly sobered up, and spend the next five hours working furiously, ideas flying between them, until they finally feel they have something they can show Wilhelmina without embarrassing themselves. Cliff is getting ready to leave, after promising to be back tomorrow morning.

“This was fun,” he says as he's shrugging into his jacket, sounding a little bit surprised.

“It was,” Marc agrees. They always did work well together, but he doesn't want to say anything, for fear of reminding Cliff why they stopped doing anything together. Not that he thinks Cliff has forgotten, but still. It's going so well.

Cliff is just about to open the door, when Amanda bursts through it, almost hitting him straight in the face with it. She stops dead in her tracks when she sees him, narrowing her eyes.

“Amanda,” Cliff says politely.

“... you,” Amanda replies, after obviously struggling and failing to find the right name.

“Mandy, you remember Cliff, right?” Marc says tightly, giving her a warning glare.

“Unfortunately,” she says, looking him up and down.

Cliff just shakes his head and raises his hand in a goodbye to Marc. “See you tomorrow.”

When the door closes behind him, Amanda stomps over to the couch and flops down beside Marc. “What was he doing here? Are you sleeping with him again?”

“No, we're working together,” Marc sighs. Now that the excitement has passed, he's starting to feel the aftereffects of the alcohol. He lies down, resting his head on Amanda's lap and lets her pet his hair.

“Working together in bed?” she asks slyly.

“Mandy,” he says softly. “I cheated on him, and then asked him to marry me to cover it up.”

Her hand stills in his hair. “Oh, right, that was him! You broke his huge little heart. That was really sad.”

Marc can only agree.

“But it was a really long time ago, and anyway, I thought you got over the whole loving an average man thing. Just look at Troy!”

“Troy's been gone for months.” Their reunion had lasted for three weeks, and Marc had just begun to remember why he lost interest in the first place, when Troy got a new job and left without any real regret on either side.

“I liked Troy,” Amanda says. “He was pretty, and he had great clothes, and he worked at Mode. He was like the male version of me.”

“Considering that's the exact same argument you made when you tried to set me up with your father, we're moving into a whole new territory of disturbing.”

“I know,” Amanda says, sounding pleased. “Isn't it great?”

In a way, it kind of is. And at least it's given him something to think about other than Cliff.

“Hey.”

The photo shoot for Monday's child is going surprisingly well, even if Cliff finally snapped and told him to “Go stand over there and stop looking over my shoulder!” and Marc is almost starting to relax when he hears a voice behind him. He turns around slowly and regards the person in front of him intently for a few seconds.

“Oh, it's you! I haven't seen you in so long, I barely recognized you.”

Justin smiles. “Don't be ridiculous.”

“No, no, I see how it is,” Marc says and sighs tragically. He's enjoying himself. “You find a boyfriend, and suddenly old friends doesn't matter anymore.”

“Or,” Justin says, “someone becomes a hotshot editor and is never around anymore.”

Marc cocks his head to the side thoughtfully. “Hmm, yes. I like your theory better.” He smiles brightly, and indicates the set with a grand gesture. “What do you think of my kingdom?”

Justin takes in the theater style make-up mirrors, the vintage dressing gowns, the claw feet bathtub that almost broke the floor when they put it down, and the model lightly touching a huge powder puff to her face.

“Wow,” he says, clearly impressed. “It looks great!”

“I know!” Marc says happily, and resists the urge to pinch his own arm. It's the first time he's been so heavily involved in a project right from the start, and the feeling is incredible.

“Hey,” Justin says and points discretely toward Cliff. “Isn't that...?”

“Yes,” Marc says, interrupting him.

“Your ex?”

“Yes.”

“That must be weird.”

“Yes. No! Stop with the questions!”

Justin looks up at him innocently through his eyelashes.

“Do you still like him?”

“Cliff is very likable.”

“That's not what I meant.”

“Justin.” He puts a firm hand on Justin's shoulder. “I am very happy that you're happy and contented with life, but this little gay Jiminy Cricket thing you've got going on isn't really working for me at the moment.”

Justin just smiles. Nothing seems to phase him these days. Marc is secretly very proud, if a tiny bit annoyed. He sighs.

“Remember the days when you used to be in awe of my fabulous life? Can we go back to that?”

“Marc. You're an editor at Mode. I'm in high school.”

“Oh, right.” The boy has a point. “Okay.”

“Mom said to tell you you're coming for dinner tonight.”

“Tell Hilda that I'm a very busy person, and that most people ask other people for dinner, instead of telling them.”

Justin just raises an eyebrow.

“And,” Marc continues, “this scheme your family seem to have going to turn me into some kind of substitute Betty is not going to work, because I,” he points to himself, just for emphasis, “am nothing like Betty Suarez.”

“So, I'll see you around seven?” Justin says, and Marc sighs in defeat.

“Fine. Just don't expect me to eat the same amounts as her.”

Monday's Child is an unmitigated success. Wilhelmina reluctantly admits that it's not half bad, and gives them an extra page for the rest of the series. High from this victory, Marc and Cliff go out to celebrate, but pathetically enough find themselves in Marc's apartment in the middle of the night, already planning what to do for Tuesday's Child. They're looking up definitions for the word grace when Cliff suddenly stops talking mid sentence, staring over Marc's shoulder. Marc turns to follow his gaze, and is rewarded with the sight of Tyler coming out of Amanda's bedroom, clad in nothing but a pair of very well fitted underwear. He walks over to the fridge and takes a bottle of water out, unscrewing the top and drinking thirstily. A stray drop of water sadly doesn't run down his chin and over his chest in slow motion, but the effect is pretty much the same. He turns and catches sight of them, choking on the water.

“Sorry,” he coughs. “I had no idea there was anyone out here.”

“That's okay” Marc and Cliff says, almost in unison, and glance at each other quickly, slightly embarrassed.

“Right,” Tyler, looking self conscious. “I'll just...” he gestures toward Amanda's bedroom, and quickly disappears, after first missing the door and walking straight into the wall.

“Wow,” Cliff breathes after he's gone.

“I know,” Marc agrees.

“Who was that?”

“Tyler. Amanda's boyfriend. Claire Meade's long lost son. Daniel's brother. Model. A man of very many talents.”

“Wow,” Cliff says again, a little too impressed for Marc's liking. Not that he can blame him. “Does he do that half naked thing a lot?”

“More than you think,” Marc says. “I think Amanda does it on purpose, to make me forget that she owes me four months of rent.” The arrangement doesn't really bother him.

“I might have to come over more,” Cliff says, and even though a spark of jealousy flare up, that arrangement doesn't bother Marc either.

When the issue featuring Tuesday's Child has gone to the printers, Wilhelmina sends him to England to cover the London Fashion Week. Her dismissive ”Not that anyone cares about their quaint little British clothes, but try to find something worth a few hundred words” doesn't manage to dampen his enthusiasm at being sent overseas on his own for the first time.

“I went to Europe for a couple of months,” Cliff says when Marc tells him. “Paris, Rome, Vienna. It was fantastic, taking pictures of something other than clothes for a change.” He doesn't actually say it was because of their breakup, but the time frame fits, and wow, Marc even managed to drive him out of the country. And he didn't even have a clue that Cliff was interested in European history and architecture, which, judging from the enthusiasm with which he talks about his trip, he clearly is. Marc is a terrible person.

He does the mistake of letting Betty know he's coming, and a few months away from Mode have apparently made her even more assertive than before, so instead of glorious solitude in a luxurious, well, decent (Wilhelmina doesn't believe in comfort for people other than herself), hotel room, he finds himself staring at the couch in Betty's tiny apartment.

“It might be a bit too short for you, but you'll manage,” she says cheerfully.

He would protest, but he still hasn't quite recovered from the bone crushing hug she gave him when they met. He didn't even mind that much. As much as he hates to admit it, it's really rather wonderful to see her again.

“So,” she says, clapping her hands excitedly. “Tell me everything!”

Marc has never in his life said no to gossiping, so he's settling in to spill all the details of life at Mode, when the front door opens, and Daniel enters. His face lights up when he sees Marc, and after crossing the room in a couple of long strides he envelops him in Marc's second bear hug of the day, almost lifting him off the floor.

“Marc!” he exclaims, flashing blindingly white teeth. “It's awesome to see you. You look great!”

“You too,” Marc stutters, momentarily stunned. “I had no idea you were in London.”

“Well, I'm here!” Daniel grins. There is something off about the way he talks. He sounds almost... Texan. “And I'm making us dinner!”

He disappears into the kitchen and Marc moves close to Betty, keeping a watchful eye on the doorway, just in case Daniel comes back.

“What's with the hugging?” he hisses. “And the accent, and the teeth, and is he actually cooking?” The most probable explanation strikes him, and he places his hands on Betty's shoulders, staring at her solemnly. “Did he join another cult?”

“No.” Betty shrugs off his hands. “I think he just really enjoys playing the stereotypical American. He seems to get a kick out of it. At least he's stopped wearing the cowboy hat. And the boots.”

“And you just let him do this?”

She shrugs. “He's happy. And keeping Daniel from doing stupid things is no longer part of my job description.”

Daniel comes in again, a collection of brightly colored take away menus fanned out in his hand.

“And that's his idea of cooking,” Betty says under her breath.

“Pick one!” Daniel holds out his hand to Marc, who points to something orange. Daniel picks out the menu and looks at it more closely. “Thai! Awesome. That's just around the corner, I'll run down and get us something okay?” Without waiting for an answer he grabs his jacket, kisses Betty soundly, pats Marc on the back, and disappears out the door.

Marc stares at Betty, who blushes slightly.

“Oh my God.”

“Marc...”

”Bethlehemia Suarez!” he exclaims, ignoring Betty's halfhearted ”Marc, that's not my name.” ”Are you sleeping with Daniel!”

“As I said, it's no longer my job to keep Daniel from doing stupid things.” She looks a little bit embarrassed, and Marc kind of wants to hug her.

“I don't know,” he says. “I think this might be the least stupid thing he's ever done.”

She smiles that genuinely happy smile that he's never seen on anyone but her and that makes him tear up slightly. He blinks furiously and pulls her with him down on the couch.

“Tell me every sordid detail!”

When Betty and Daniel have gone to bed, and specifically to avoid the thought of Betty and Daniel in bed, he calls Cliff. Once he's dialed he starts wondering why he didn't call Amanda, and he's just about to hang up when Cliff picks up. As soon as he hears his voice, he knows exactly why he chose him and not Amanda.

“How's London?”

Marc looks around the room, and he's fairly certain Ignacio must have shipped half the contents of the Suarez household overseas.

“Surprisingly similar to Queens,” he says. “What are you doing?”

“Oh, you know me,” Cliff says. “I'm out among the bright young things, as usual.”

There's a clanging sound in the background, followed by a deep melancholic sigh.

“Really?” Marc says and smiles. “How many of those can you fit into your kitchen?”

There is silence on the other end.

“Are you watching me from across the street?” Cliff asks finally, a suspicious note in his voice. “Because that is just plain creepy, and not the result I expected from making you watch the entire works of Hitchcock.”

“Twice,” Marc adds.

“You can't appreciate the subtle nuances on the first viewing!” Cliff protests.

“Or the second one,” Marc thinks, but knows better than to say it out loud. “I can hear your fridge all the way from London,” he says instead. “I can't believe you haven't replaced that thing.”

“You can't just replace something like that,” Cliff says passionately, and Marc settles in more comfortably. He's heard this before, but he doesn't mind. “This fridge is older than me, it's probably older than this apartment, in fact, I think it's a possibility that this entire building was built around this fridge, as a shrine to it's gloriousness.”

“That is beautiful, honey, but it still wouldn't make a good movie.” As soon as the words are out and he realizes what he's said, his heart starts pounding faster, and he grabs his bag, frantically rooting around in it for his inhaler.

“See, I think it would,” Cliff says, and Marc has no idea how long the pause was, if Cliff simply didn't hear the endearment, or if he's gracious enough to ignore it. Knowing Cliff, it's probably the latter. “There have been plenty of sci-fi movies based on worse premises than that.”

“And you own every single one.”

“Almost. You should get some sleep.”

Marc's grateful for the way out. “Yeah.”

“Tell Betty I said hi.”

“I will. Bye.”

“Bye.”

He stares at the phone for a long time after the they've hung up, tracing Cliff's name on the display, and tries to tell himself that it's the jet lag that prevents him from falling asleep.

“Cliff?” Betty says as Marc relays the greeting over breakfast. “Wow.”

They're drinking tea, out of an actual teapot with tiny yellow flowers on it with matching cups, and Marc thinks quietly that maybe Daniel's exaggerated Americanness is less of a problem than her obviously cliched Britishness. A teapot? Really?

“That must be weird,” she continues, and he's forced to turn back to his own issues.

“Not really,” he lies. “We work really well together.”

She looks at him, the way only Betty can look at people, the way that lets him know that she knows exactly what he's doing.

“Fine!” he exclaims, buttering his toast so hard it crumbles in his hand. “It is weird. But mostly it's just really nice.”

“Has he forgiven you?” she asks.

Marc sighs and folds his arms on the table, laying his head down on them, not even caring that he's getting jam on his very expensive shirt.

“I have no idea,” he mutters. “We haven't exactly talked about it. It's not really something you just bring up out of nowhere. Oh, yeah, that's a great idea for a photo shoot, and by the way how do you feel about the fact that I cheated on you?”

Betty puts another piece of bread in the toaster. “Does it matter what he thinks?”

“What do you mean?”

“If you're just working together, then maybe it doesn't matter.”

He lifts his head a fraction and looks up at her. “I don't want it to be only work,” he admits quietly.

“Do you still love him?”

“It's been two years, Betty.”

“That doesn't have to mean anything.”

He picks his piece of toast apart. “I never had the chance to fall out of love with him. One minute everything was great, and the next I'd ruined everything. I just... refused to think about him at all.”

“That doesn't sound very healthy.”

“Look, I know you seem to have some secret plan to fill the void that will appear when Oprah retires, but can we leave off the Dr. Phil talk?”

“Marc...”

“Fine. So maybe that's all there is. Residual feeling. I'm sure it'll go away.”

“Marc, have you been serious about anyone since Cliff?”

“That doesn't mean anything! I wasn't serious about anyone before him either.” Oh God, that makes it even worse. He groans and lets his head fall back down on his arms.

Betty's silence speaks a million words.

“It doesn't matter what I feel anyway. He would never take me back.”

“I don't know. Cliff was pretty crazy about you. It was sweet.”

Marc shakes his head. “You didn't see his face when I told him.” The memory still makes him feel sick.

“But you're working together, that has to mean something.”

“Stockholm syndrome?” he suggests weakly.

She sighs. “How can you be so amazing when it comes to Justin and so hopeless when it comes to you? Talk to him, Marc!”

She makes him finish his toast, and for the rest of the week she's mercifully quiet about the whole thing. She drags him around London, even forcing him on a horrific sightseeing bus, before taking him to Christina's fashion show, where he writes a glowing report, mostly concentrating on the fact that it was Wilhelmina Slater who discovered this new star on the fashion circuit. When it's time for him to leave for the airport she hugs him tightly again, and in a moment of weakness, probably caused by too much tea and rain, he tells her that he'll miss her. Clearly London is a dangerous place.

Betty's words stay with him, though, as Betty's words have a tendency to do, annoyingly berating him in the back of his mind. He knows he has to talk to Cliff, but he hates the thought of it and he has no idea how to bring it up. He's feeling very in tune with Wednesday's Child who is full of woe, and ironically enough he's never been more inspired when it comes to work. The weeks leading up to the next issue flies by, and suddenly they're making the final decision on the photos, in the middle of the night at Marc's place, arguing about whether a black beret for an angsty poet is too cliche or just cliche enough.

They've finally agreed to disagree, or at least leave it up to Wilhelmina, and Cliff is gathering his things. Marc doesn't want him to leave.

“Want to stay for a while?” he asks, trying hard not to sound too eager. “There's a rerun of America's Next Top Model on.”

Cliff shakes his head. “I should go. I need the sleep.”

“Sure?” Marc waves the remote control invitingly. “I think Nigel is taking the pictures this week...”

He can see Cliff's resolution fade away, and he hangs up his jacket again and heads over to the sofa.

“Noted fashion photographer, my ass,” he mutters as he grabs the remote from Marc to find the right channel.

They used to do this every week. Cliff would mock the photographs, and often the photographers, and Marc would mock everything else. And afterward, just to balance things, they would watch weird European movies that Cliff loved, and that Marc was more than happy to fall asleep to, snuggled up to Cliff.

As the credits are rolling and the eliminated girl is sobbing about how it doesn't matter and she's still prettier than all the other models, he knows he has to say something.

“I missed an entire season of this,” is what comes out. “It was too weird watching it without you after we...”

It's the first time either of them has even mentioned the breakup, and it's not a promising sign that he can't even finish the sentence.

Cliff turns the TV off, and the room goes eerily quiet. So, they're really doing this now, and Marc is regretting having said anything in the first place. He knows it had to be done eventually, but still.

“Why did you do it?” Cliff asks quietly. He's looking down at this hands rather than at Marc.

Marc has been waiting for this question since he heard Cliff's voice in the reception, he's had more than two months to think of an answer, but the plain truth is that no answer is good enough.

“I don't know.” It's the truth, but even he can hear how inadequate it sounds. Cliff apparently thinks so too, judging from his snort of disbelief. “I guess I panicked.”

Cliff finally looks up, and the hurt in his eyes looks as fresh as when Marc first told him two years ago, and Marc is the worst person who has ever lived.

“The thought of living with me made you panic?”

Marc shakes his head. “I don't think my thoughts even reached that far. I just didn't want things to change. What we had was amazing, I didn't want to lose it.”

“So you cheated on me? Yeah, that makes perfect sense!”

“I know.”

“And instead of telling me, you asked me to marry you. Who the hell does something like that?”

“I just wanted to make things better. I felt so guilty, and I couldn't think of anything else.”

“You lied to me for weeks! How is that making things better?”

They're both on their feet now, and while they're not screaming their raised voices is apparently enough of a disturbance for the grumpy old man how lives in the apartment above, and he's angrily banging his cane on the ceiling, making them both shut up.

“I loved you, Marc,” Cliff says calmly. “And you just threw that away.”

Marc wants to protest, but the lack of anger in Cliff's voice is somehow worse than anything else, because it's sounds like there's nothing left to say, and he can feel his throat closing up, and his breath becoming ragged.

Cliff is watching him, looking torn between annoyance and concern. “Where's your inhaler.”

Marc gestures toward his bag, and Cliff quickly finds it. He hovers near as Marc takes a puff and feels his breathing go back to normal.

“I should go.”

“No!” Marc almost throws himself to get between Cliff and the door. “Just listen, please!”

Cliff nods, once, and Marc wets his lips nervously.

“What I did, it was the biggest mistake of my life. I know that, and I need you to know that. I am so sorry for hurting you, and for ruining what we had. Because it was brilliant. And I miss it. I miss you, and spending time with you lately has been wonderful, and you can't just go!”

“Why did you bring it up now?” Cliff asks quietly. “We still have to work together for four more months. And I was fine with that.”

“Cliff,” Marc says softly. “This isn't just work. I don't usually watch TV in the middle of the night in my apartment with the people I work with. I have no idea what we're doing, but it's more than work.”

Cliff just shakes his head.

“I should go,” he says again, and this time Marc doesn't try to stop him.

The days go by without a word from Cliff. Marc wants to call, but he knows that he's already said everything he could say, and that it's up to Cliff now. He calls Betty one night, ignoring the time difference on purpose to wake her up and tells her that it's all her fault. She patiently listens to him rant, and still has the nerve to tell him that he did the right thing. Then she hands the phone to Daniel who shares his top ten methods of apologizing to angry girlfriends, but they all seem to boil down to the same thing: Have Betty do it. Marc hangs up on him.

He tries to convince himself that the main reason to worry is professional, they have to start planning Thursday's Child soon, and if Cliff doesn't call, then Marc has no idea what to do, but his heart and head has joined forces for once to conspire against him. Amanda tries to get him to go out with her and Tyler, but all he wants to do is to feel sorry for himself, and he's settling in for another night at home, when there's a knock on the door.

Cliff is outside. He holds up his laptop case.

“I downloaded cycle 12 of Top Model. I figured that was the one you missed. I thought maybe we could watch it together. If you wanted.”

What Marc really wants is to throw his arms around Cliff and beg him never to leave again. “Okay,” he says instead and holds the door wide open. “Do you want a beer?”

Cliff raises his eyebrows. “You've allowed beer into your home?”

Marc shrugs. “Just in case.” He'd bought it in hope that it would somehow bring Cliff back to the apartment. Marc heads over to the fridge and takes a beer out. After a quick argument in his head, he grabs one for himself too.

“You remembered my favorite,” Cliff says, sounding pleasantly surprised, when Marc hands him the bottle.

“Sooo...” Marc says as they're sitting down. He hates to bring it up again, but he knows it's inevitable. “Are we okay?”

Cliff picks at the label on the beer. “Yeah. I think so.”

“Just like that.” It all sounds a bit too good to be true to Marc.

“It's been two years,” Cliff says. “I've dealt with it. I know it didn't seem like it the other night,” he continues when Marc looks doubtful, “but I wouldn't have taken a job at Mode if I wasn't fine with seeing you again. I think I just needed the argument. To get it all out. We never did that. I just walked away.” He looks at Marc, almost sheepishly. “Trust me, I have screamed at you so many times in my head, and it was a relief to get to do it for real.”

Marc nods. “I can understand that.”

“And I've missed this too, just hanging out with you. I don't want to lose that.” He takes a deep breath and raises the bottle. “So, let's move on. Let's be... friends.”

Marc clangs his bottle against Cliff's.

“To being friends!” He'll take it. It's not what he wants the most, but he'll gladly take it.

“Also,” Cliff says and drinks, “I had an email from Betty, detailing all of your good virtues. She really likes her lists, doesn't she?”

“That's our Betty,” Marc says. “Efficient.”

“She had some good points,” Cliff admits, and doesn't look at Marc, instead opening up his laptop and starting the first episode.

Marc doesn't care if it takes him the rest of his life, he will find a poncho that doesn't violate the fundamental laws of fashion and ship it to London, all wrapped up and tied with a pretty ribbon. He loves Betty.

They watch in silence. The mood is still a little awkward, and Marc isn't sure how to change it. It'll take time, he supposes.

“I hated Europe,” Cliff confesses suddenly, when the girls are freaking out about going abroad. “Especially France.”

Marc narrows his eyes at him. “I thought it was all fulfilling and rewarding and arty.”

“Oh, please,” Cliff mutters. “Do you know how hard it is to take a photo of the Eiffel Tower from an original angle? I tried for two days! In the end I just bought a postcard.”

Marc fails to suppress a giggle.

“And everyone in Paris was all skinny and pretty and bitchy and reminded me of you.”

“Aww, I'm sorry.” Marc tries to sound sympathetic, but he's rather pleased by the comparison.

Cliff glances at him out of the corner of his eye. “You totally took that as a compliment,” he says, and doesn't seem fooled by Marc's innocent look. He kicks at Marc's foot lightly, and Marc, instantly remembering their first date, kicks back, feeling a tiny glimmer of hope.

Marc breathes a sigh of relief as he finally reaches the door to his apartment after the worst day in months. It started off fine, he spent the morning working with Cliff, but after lunch everything went straight to hell. He had a meeting with a group of designers who kept insisting that their entirely black collection could only be photographed against a black background, despite his objections that a completely black page would only confuse readers. He misplaced his phone somewhere and when he finally managed to get out of the office he was stuck in the elevator for half an hour with Wilhelmina's latest assistant, who broke down in tears and confessed between hiccups that he was thinking of taking a less stressful job, like maybe a fireman or fighter pilot. As Marc opens the door he almost pities himself for how much his heart lifts when he sees Cliff sitting on the kitchen counter, a pizza box resting on his knees.

“Hey,” he calls out as Marc comes in. “You hungry?”

“I don't eat pizza!” Marc says, and even to his own ears the denial sounds a little bit exaggerated.

“Ah,” Cliff says, pointing at him with a slice that's dripping cheese on the floor. “Officially you don't eat pizza. Unofficially...”

“Shut up,” Marc says, smiling despite himself. He walks over the fridge to grab a bottle of water, but changes his mind once he sees the opened bottle of wine. Perfect. “Anyway, I had lunch with a design team from Germany. They made me eat sausages.”

Cliff grins and opens his mouth to speak, but Marc takes a huge swallow of wine and holds up his hand to silence him.

“No dirty jokes!”

“You used to love my dirty jokes!”

“That was when we were sleeping together. Now that we're just friends, I can do without them.”

Cliff just keeps grinning and even winks at him, and Marc sighs, not at all wistfully. “Why are you even here?”

“Amanda had a crisis.”

Marc stares at him in disbelief. “And she called you?”

Cliff shakes his head. “No, she called you. Or your phone, which was in my camera bag, for some reason. I didn't get the chance to tell her I wasn't you, she just screamed at me to bring lots of food and...”

The door to the bathroom is flung open and Amanda appears, hair tousled, skirt hitched halfway up her thighs, holding a white stick above her head in triumph. “I'm not pregnant!”

“Yeah,” Cliff says, taking another bite of pizza. “I kind of figured after the first three tests.”

“Oh, Mandy, not again,” Marc says sympathetically.

“Don't judge me,” she says, stressing each word dramatically. “You have no idea how hard it is being straight and pretty and fertile.” She eyes the pharmacy bag on the counter next to Cliff. “Maybe I should take the last test too, just in case.”

“Go for it,” Cliff says and hands her the bag.

She tosses the already used test up in the air and grabs the wine bottle from Marc's hand.

“I need to hydrate.” Then she heads straight for the bathroom and slams the door behind her.

Cliff looks down at the pregnancy test that has landed right in the pizza box. He looks a little bit nauseous. “I'm so not an expert in these matters,” he says wearily, “but she peed on that, right?”

Later that evening, Marc and Amanda are curled up on the couch, well into their third bottle of wine.

“Cliff is rather nice,” Amanda admits, and lets her head fall down on Marc's shoulder. “In a cuddly sort of way.”

“Mmm,” Marc agrees and pushes her hair out of his face.

“Also, I'm pretty sure he has lost weight.”

“He hasn't,” Marc says. “You just think he looks thinner because you're starting to like him.”

“Really?” Amanda ponders this. “That makes sense in a weird way. It happened with Betty too. I thought she'd had one of those operations where they remove your stomach, but when I tried on her clothes they were still totally huge. Oh my God!”

She suddenly sits up straight and grips Marc's arms so tightly it makes him wince.

“Is Tyler secretly fat and I just think he's gorgeous because I love him?”

“Tyler's a model, Mandy,” Marc says soothingly, and she relaxes instantly.

“Oh, good. I mean, I know fat people are people too, and I think it's very progressive of you to be in love with one of them, but I'm just not ready for that step.”

“I'm not in love with Cliff,” Marc lies, but Amanda just curls closer and tells him he's an idiot.

When the shoot for Thursday's Child is finished, Marc spends a few thoroughly enjoyable minutes bossing people around, and when he turns back Cliff is frowning at his phone.

“I have seven missed calls from my father,” he says, a note of worry creeping into his voice. He dials a number and moves toward an unoccupied corner of the studio. Marc keeps an eye on him while he stacks up the colorful vintage suitcases they've used. Cliff doesn't seem to be talking much, he's mostly nodding and he keeps pinching the bridge of his nose, like he always does when he's developing a headache. Marc quietly starts ushering people out the door, and he's just closing it when Cliff hangs up and slowly walks toward him.

He looks stricken. “My mom died.”

“Oh God,” Marc says, wanting to reach out and touch him but deciding not to at the last moment. “Cliff, I'm so sorry.”

“I have to go home.”

“Of course,” Marc says immediately.

“I have to...” Cliff blinks rapidly, and shakes his head as if he's trying to wake himself up. “I need to book a plane ticket, and...”

“Cliff,” Marc says and finally puts his hands on Cliff's upper arms to steady him. “Go home to your apartment, pack a bag, and I'll fix the rest, okay?”

“What?”

“The plane ticket, a cab to the airport, I'll take care of it.”

“You don't have to...”

“Please,” Marc says. “I was a word class assistant, I can do this in my sleep. Actually, once I booked an entire trip to Cancun, hotel and everything for Wili, and I must have been asleep while I was doing it. When I woke up the details where just there, in my notepad on the bedside...” he stops himself when he realizes he's babbling. “Never mind. Just, don't worry about a thing. Go home. I'll call you with the details.”

Cliff nods gratefully. He puts his hand over Marc's and squeezes it briefly. Then he leaves, and Marc gets to work.

Cliff calls him three days later. Under different circumstances, Marc would be embarrassed to admit how quickly he answers the phone when he sees Cliff's name on the display.

“Hey.”

“Hi,” Cliff says. He sounds tired.

“Are you okay?”

Cliff sighs. “I guess. It's weird, though. Being home without mom being here.”

“It must be. Was it her heart?” He knows Cliff's mom has been hospitalized for a heart condition before.

“Yeah. We all knew there was a risk, but you still don't expect it to actually happen.”

Marc has no idea what to say in a situation like this, so it comes as a relief when Cliff clears his throat nervously.

“I need a favor.”

“Anything,” Marc replies immediately.

“I wasn't thinking very clearly when I packed, and I didn't bring my black suit.” Cliff sounds rather embarrassed. “I don't think the one I have is good enough anyway.”

“Is it the same one as two years ago?” Marc asks.

”Yes.”

Marc remembers it from the dark abyss that was Cliff's closet, a dreadful thing with too short sleeves made from some cheap material that Marc was too horrified to investigate further. “Then no, it's not good enough.”

Cliff sighs. “I know. Mom would haunt me if I showed up in that to her funeral. Look, I could try to buy one here, but you know what I'm like with things like that.”

“It'd take you two days and you would hate every second of it,” Mark supplies and smiles. ”I'll take care of it.”

“Really?” There's a trace of hope in Cliff's voice. “You don't have to.”

“I'm just glad I can help. Thank god it's nothing like your car breaking down, or a pet that needed feeding or anything. Shopping I can do.”

“I really appreciate it. The funeral is in three days, so...”

“I'll do it first thing tomorrow morning. You'll have it the next day.”

“Thank you.”

“I could bring it to you, if you wanted.” The words are out of his mouth almost before he has the idea.

“What?”

“I mean, I could fly out there. If you need some company, or something.” He picks at his nails nervously while he's waiting for Cliff to reply.

“I'd like that,” Cliff says finally.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“I'll be there as soon as I can.”

Cliff's family runs a charming bed and breakfast in the countryside. Marc is placed in the blue bedroom, a large serene room with an alarmingly high four poster bed. He's perched in the middle of the bed, with a few pillows on each side, just to be sure. He arrived the day before, and in a desperate attempt to be helpful found himself at the mall with Cliff's five nieces and nephews. The experience wasn't quite as horrific as it could have been. The younger ones were easily bribed with ice-cream, and the older ones with celebrity gossip. The smile Cliff gave him when he came back to the house, the two youngest hanging on to his hands, was worth it.

He came armed with three suits and a handful of shirts and ties. The first suit fit perfectly, just like he knew it would, and Cliff looked amazing in it. Marc spent most of the funeral feeling guilty for having less than chaste thoughts on such a solemn occasion, and has had trouble looking Cliff in the eyes ever since. He sighs and stares at the row of ceramic ducks lined up on the dresser across the room. He contemplates calling Amanda and let her babble him to sleep when there's a knock on the door.

”Come in!” he calls as he sits up straighter, hastily shoving the pillows behind his back.

The door opens and Cliff steps into the room. He's in sweatpants and a t-shirt with a washed out Mode logo on it. His hair is tousled as if he's been tossing and turning in bed, and to Marc he still looks amazing.

”Still awake?” he says, and Marc nods.

”How are you holding up?” he asks.

Cliff shrugs, his mouth set in a tight unhappy line. Wordlessly Marc scoots over to the far side of the bed and lifts up the corner of the cover. Cliff hesitates for a few seconds, then he closes the door behind him and climbs into the bed, sitting beside Marc, resting against the pile of pillows.

”My nieces are fighting over who gets to marry you,” he says. It's chilly in the room, and he pulls the covers up over their shoulders. ”You were obviously a big hit.”

”I gave them ice-cream,” Marc admits. ”Lots of ice-cream.”

Cliff smiles. ”Yeah, they're easy like that.” He leans back and stares up into the ceiling.

Marc follows his gaze and notices for the first time that there are wisps of clouds painted on the blue background.

”I lost my virginity in this room,” Cliff says conversationally and Marc whips his head to the side to frown at him.

”You told me that happened in college,” he says suspiciously. “With your roommate. I knew he was too good to be true!”

“No, Eric was real,” Cliff says with a smile that makes Marc's jealousy stir. “And that was the time that counted. This was a girl.”

“Ew!” Marc exclaims automatically, but he is definitely interested. “Someone's been keeping secrets.”

“Jessica Williams,” Cliff says, still looking up at the ceiling. “She had this amazing long blonde hair that she kept in a braid. I took her to this room, because I figured it was slightly more classy than my own.”

“There's a habit you could have kept up,” Marc says. “You never took me to any fancy hotels.”

“You didn't seem to need any convincing to put out,” Cliff says innocently, then grunts as Marc sticks a sharp elbow in his side. “Well, you didn't!”

“So,” Marc says, after admitting to himself that Cliff is absolutely right, “Jessica Williams. Was it everything you'd ever dreamed of?”

“Oh, it was definitely a life changing experience,” Cliff says solemnly. They look at each other and burst out laughing. “My mom caught me washing the sheets,” Cliff continues. “I completely panicked and babbled something about wanting more responsibility in the family business.”

“Did she buy it?”

“I doubt it. She didn't say anything, but she made me do all the laundry for this place for six months.”

“She sounds great,” Marc says softly.

“Yeah,” Cliff sighs as his smile fades away. “She was.”

Marc moves his hand, trying to find Cliff's under the covers. When they touch he laces their fingers together. After a brief moment he can feel Cliff's hand squeezing his, and he lets out the breath he doesn't know he's been holding.

“Thanks,” Cliff says. “For everything.”

“Anytime,” Marc replies, and he has never meant anything more in his life.

They get back to New York three days later, and it takes the two of them to carry all the extra clothes up the stairs to Cliff's apartment. It becomes apparent that something is not quite right as soon as they open the door.

“Oh, god,” Marc says, holding his hand to his face and trying not to gag. “What did you do to this place?”

Cliff is standing in the middle of the kitchen, staring at his fridge as if he was about to run over and throw his arms around it if the stench wasn't so bad.

“I love you,” he says heavily to it, “but your timing really sucks.”

While Cliff is replacing the clothes in his suitcase for clean ones, Marc quickly and carefully cleans the fridge, two fingers tightly pinching his nose, face averted as he empties the contents into a garbage bag.

“The things I do for love,” he thinks, and then forces himself to smell the milk, just to get onto another train of thought.

Cliff seems reluctant to leave, but Marc is having no more of this.

“Come on,” he says and forcibly drags Cliff out the door when he's trying to give the fridge a last mournful look. “You can stay on our couch until the air in there is breathable again.”

“It's okay,” Cliff sighs. “I'll check into an hotel.”

“No, you won't,” Marc says, wondering if he can just kick the heavy garbage bag down the stairs, but realizing it would probably end in disaster. “I know what Mode is paying you, and if you ever want a new fridge, you better start saving up.”

“i don't want a new one. I really loved Marvin,” Cliff says sadly, and then looks embarrassed as Marc turns back and looks at him with pity in his eyes. “That sounded pretty sad, didn't it?”

“You gave your fridge a name,” he states plainly, but Cliff just shrugs unapologetically.

“Because he always sounded so depressed, you know. I named him after...”

“Yeah.” Marc holds up a hand to stop him. “I can't believe I'm saying this, but I actually get the reference.”

Cliff breaks out into a huge grin. “Marc! Your inner geek is breaking out! I always knew he was in there somewhere.”

“Shut up,” Marc says, and nudges Cliff toward the stairs.

“Where's my camera, I need to capture this moment!”

“I open my home to you, and this is what I get? Abuse?”

“Eh, you love it.”

“Well, there it is,” Marc says unnecessarily as they stand in front of the couch. “It's not the most comfortable thing in the world, but it works.”

“Yes,” Cliff says, amused. “We have met before.”

“Or you can take my bed and I can sleep here, or in Amanda's room, if she's spending the night at Tyler's, or...” He's aware that he's speaking much too fast, but he can't help himself.

“How about,” Cliff says slowly, “you sleep in your bed, and I sleep in your bed too.”

Marc nods frantically.

“Sure, I mean it's a big bed, and...”

“I didn't mean it like that.” Cliff takes his hand, lightly running his thumb over Marc's wrist. He looks at him with a heat in his eyes that makes Marc knees go wobbly, and then he smiles, almost nervously.

“Oh,” Marc breathes softly. “Are you sure?”

Cliff nods.

“Time to move on,” he says simply. He leans in, and Marc can't believe himself, but he puts out his hands to stop him.

“Cliff, your mom died,” he says, carefully holding Cliff off.

“I know. But this isn't because of that. It's because...” he breaks off, and just looks at Marc and smiles. “Marc, you bought me three suits, and got on a plane with them. You took care of children. You held my hand, even after you found out I slept with a girl.” He makes a face at the last word, and Marc has to laugh. “It's because you remember details from Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. And because you're the least subtle person I know, and it's so obvious that you're in love with me, and that's very nice.”

“Very nice?” Marc mouths incredulously.

“Very fantastic and wonderful?” Cliff laughs. “And it's because I've missed you so much, and I've had so much fun in the last couple of months. And I think we deserve better than what we got last time.”

“Cliff,” Marc says, quietly but intently. “It won't happen again.”

Cliff takes his hand and kisses his knuckles.

“I believe you,” he says simply.

And then they're finally kissing, and it's so familiar and so wonderful, and so perfect, and Marc can't believe how he could ever doubt this. As the world goes gray around them, the last coherent thought Marc has the chance to form is that he will do everything not to screw this up again.

“How do I look?” They're on the way to a Donna Karen party, Marc is still slightly stunned at how little convincing it took Cliff to join him, and have stopped at Cliff's apartment so that he can get changed. Apparently they shouldn't have bothered. Marc quickly tries to control his muscles so the horror won't show on his face. Cliff is wearing a pullover in a most unfortunate shade of pink, the fabric fuzzy and pilling, its collar slightly too tight, and he gives off the impression of being stuck in a raw chicken. Marc has a vague notion he might have seen this sweater before, and repressed it.

“You look great!” Marc forces a smile. “The color really compliments your skin tone.”

“Really?” Cliff says. “Because the last time I dared to wear this in your presence, you said I looked like I was being eaten by a giant frozen turkey.”

“That doesn't sound like me at all,” Marc lies and shakes his head.

“Marc, you cheated on me,” Cliff says seriously, and Marc's heart drops like a stone. He knew this would come up again. But Cliff doesn't look upset. In fact, he has that fond smile on his face that he gets when Marc gets passionately angry about something.

“That's why I broke up with you. Not because you occasionally, well, often, had opinions on what I was wearing. And the way you stopped me five times on the way over here, just to kiss me in the middle of the street, to make sure I know you're not embarrassed by being seen with me? That was nice, but the last time we were almost killed by a cab. It's fine! Okay?”

“Okay,” Marc repeats obediently.

“So stop trying to please me. And being all nice. It's freaky. It's not you. And I like you.”

“I don't want you to change for me,” Marc says softly.

“I don't plan on changing. But you're allowed to keep me from leaving the house looking like a disaster.”

“Really?”

“Yes!”

“In that case, can we talk about the beard?”

“No,” Cliff says cheerfully. “The beard is off limits.”

“Oh, come on,” Marc pleads. “I love you, so I've learned to see beyond that scratchy little chin wig of yours...” He laughs reluctantly as Cliff mimes a swoon and drops down in a kitchen chair. “... but you do look so much handsomer without it.”

“The beard stays.”

“Fine,” Marc says nonchalantly. “Then the sex goes.”

Cliff laughs and holds out a hand for Marc to help him up.

“Oh, baby. You've tried that before, and you always give in first, you know that.”

Curse him and his knowledge of Marc's weaknesses!

Marc takes his hand and pulls him up and close, kissing him lightly and frowning at the tickle of the beard.

“I got Daniel to shave by sticking gum in his beard,” he threatens.

“Hmm,” Cliff mumbles, kissing his way down Marc's neck, and okay, in some cases the beard does work. “From what I know about Daniel I'm surprised the threat of withholding sex didn't work on him.”

Marc shudders theatrically and Cliff laughs.

“Let's compromise. Lay off the beard, and I'll let you decide what I should wear tonight.”

“Done!”

He rifles through the closet, quickly discarding item after item, searching for something acceptable.

“I know you have nice clothes, Cliff, I made you buy them. Where are they?”

“Yeah...” Cliff says slowly, coming up behind Marc, peering into the closet. “I might have burned some of them.”

Marc gasps and clutches a shirt he remembers spending three hours to find once to his chest. “What?”

“Well, there were very intense feelings of hate there for a while,” Cliff says, looking defensive. “And a lot of alcohol.”

“That's no excuse to take it out on innocent clothes!” He pets the shirt protectively.

“It almost ended in disaster,” Cliff confesses. “I set fire to them in the kitchen sink, and then a kitchen towel caught on fire, and it somehow spread to the floor, don't ask me how, and...” he stops suddenly and looks thoughtful. “I wonder if that's what killed the fridge.”

Marc stares at him. “That is quite the dramatic gesture.”

“Yeah,” Cliff says drily. “I can't think of who I picked that up from.”

“Do we have to do this?” Cliff asks nervously and wipes his hands on his pants.

“Stop that,” Marc hisses, and straightens Cliff's tie. “And yes. If Wili thinks someone is keeping her out of the loop, she gets very upset. I can't afford to get Wili upset. She knows things. If she ever decides to publish her autobiography, we're going to have to flee the country and go live in some underdeveloped little place where they know nothing about fashion, like Cambodia, or...” he shudders at the thought “... Australia.”

“Not helping, sweetie,” Cliff says tensely, and Marc pats his arm reassuringly.

“Just don't let her know that you're scared. Try not to sweat. She can smell fear a mile away, like a lioness. And don't look her in the eyes! Or the knees!”

“It feels like you're introducing me to your mother, only much worse.”

“Oh, I wouldn't do that to you,” Marc laughs bitterly. “Trust me, that would be a lot worse than this.”

“Sorry,” Cliff says, and then, hesitantly “Have you talked to her?”

“No. Don't tell me I should.”

“I won't.”

Marc takes his hand and presses it gratefully, and then takes advantage of Cliff being off guard to pull him into Wilhelmina's office.

“Wili,” he says when she looks up from the photos on her desk and fixes them with a cold glare. “I know you've met, but I would like to formally introduce my boyfriend.” The last words still brings a shiver to his spine, but not in an unpleasant way. Cliff looks like he's about to bow, but changes his mind at the last moment.

“Hmm,” Wilhelmina says. “Marc, go show that shade of a person calling herself my assistant how to use the phone properly.”

“Um, maybe I should...” Marc starts when Cliff looks at him in absolute panic, but Wilhelmina dismisses him with a wave of his hand, and he can't help himself. It's pure instinct. He squeezes Cliff's hand apologetically and leaves the office as fast as he can without actually running.

The newest assistant is a tiny, frail girl, who has clearly had a few Valiums too many this morning. He's finally managed to convince her that the contact list is a resource, not necessarily a weapon, when Cliff comes out of the office. He looks a shade paler than before, but otherwise unharmed. There are no signs of heel impressions, which is always a good sign.

“Are you okay?” Marc asks, his voice filled with concern.

Cliff looks at him, left eye twitching a little. “I have to go the bathroom,” he says in a strangled voice.

Marc embraces him carefully.

“It's okay. That's a very common reaction.” He smiles encouragingly. “You're doing much better than most. Once, Karl Lagerfeldt curled up under my desk and cried after a meeting with her.” He turns Cliff in the direction of the bathroom, and gives him a light push. “We can watch movies with subtitles when we get home,” he calls after the retreating figure, and receives a halfhearted wave in reply.

The assistant is staring at him with wide eyes, quietly reaching into her handbag for the bottle of pills.

“And that's why you should always keep a pillow under your desk,” Marc notes sagely, and heads into Wilhelmina's office.

She's leaning over her desk again, rearranging pages with calm efficiency.

“So?” he says, not as nervous as he thought he would be.

“You could do better,” Wilhelmina says without looking at him.

“No,” Marc says softly. “I really couldn't.”

She straightens and sighs deeply.

“Well, if you're sure.”

Marc just nods, and he thinks that he can see something soften in her eyes.

“I suppose he is a moderately talented photographer,” she says reluctantly. “And you do work well together, at least on a professional plane.”

He can't help himself, he just has to. So he closes the distance between them in a few shorts steps and hugs her. Very carefully, barely touching so he won't wrinkle her jacket, and just for a fleeting moment he can feel her arm around his shoulders. He steps away quickly and pretends nothing out of the ordinary happened.

“I should get back to work,” he says, and Wilhelmina nods crisply. As he's leaving her office he can hear her call after him:

“But do something about that hideous beard!”

Marc isn't entirely sure what wakes him up first, the fact that someone is bouncing up and down on his stomach, or the fact that the same someone is chanting his name over and over again.

“Marc,” Cliff groans, his voice muffled by the pillow. “There's a girl in your bed. I didn't agree to any kinky threesomes.”

“Yes, you did,” Marc says as he fumbles to turn on the bedside lamp.

“There was a list,” Cliff mumbles. “Jake Gyllenhaal was on it. Amanda was definitely not.”

Marc finally finds the light switch, and is immediately blinded, not only by the lamp but also by the frankly enormous diamond Amanda is shoving in his face. It takes him a few seconds to realize that a) the stone is attached to a ring, and b) the ring is on Amanda's finger. He can't help it, he shrieks.

“I know!” Amanda shrieks back, and when she throws her arms around him, the bed dips as Cliff gets out.

“I think we need to give them a moment,” he says to Tyler who is standing in the doorway, looking bewildered and slightly alarmed. “Just leave them alone and they'll exhaust themselves.” He brings Tyler into the kitchen and closes the door firmly behind them.

Amanda finally stops bouncing, and burrows down under Marc's cover, warming her cold feet against his shins.

“I'm getting married,” she says, her voice filled with wonder.

He takes her hands in his. “Mandy, you are really sure about this, right?”

She nods happily and her eyes are glittering, and he has to hug her again.

“If he hurts her, I'll kick his ass,” he says later once Cliff is back in the bed, and pulls Cliff's arms tighter around him.

Cliff snorts with laughter. “That sounds plausible.”

“I'll destroy his life, little by little, until there's nothing left but misery,” Marc clarifies, and Cliff kisses his neck.

“That's my boyfriend.”

The next few weeks are a whirlwind of wedding preparations, cakes and dresses and invites and Amanda freaking out at least twice a day. There's no mistaking her happiness though, even though the kick she seems to get from marrying the long lost son of the woman who killed her mother is a little bit disturbing. But that's Amanda in a nutshell, and Marc loves her for it.

In between trying on wedding dresses, which is less fun than it ought to have been, since Amanda hogs all the pretty ones for herself and leaves him looking like a meringue every single time, he's never been working harder in his life. Wilhelmina even gives him and Cliff a raise when Vogue clearly tries to copy their nursery rhyme success with a much less successful fashion spread featuring butchers, bakers and candlestick makers. They wrap up their series on a set built as the queerest nightclub the world has ever seen. Screw the original meaning of the word gay, this Sunday's Child is a lesbian.

Marc is so busy that the realization of the effect Amanda's wedding will have on him doesn't hit him until he's cleaning the bathroom one evening. It's Amanda's turn to do it, but she's never taken her turn before, and it suddenly dawns on him that she never will. She's moving out.

Where does that leave him? He can't afford the apartment on his own, but he's grown fond of it, and the thought of moving is exhausting.

”Why is there a picture of me sleeping in Amanda's closet?” Cliff bursts through the door, clutching a photo in his hand.

Marc looks at him in the mirror.

”What were you doing in Amanda's closet? Did you want to try on her dresses? Sweetie, I understand the urge, but I don't think you're exactly the same size. She's so much... shorter than you.”

”I didn't... I don't want to... picture of me sleeping!” Cliff splutters.

”It's fine, she only does that to people she likes.” Marc turns and grabs the picture. “Aww, look, you're drooling, how cute.” He just found drool cute. Clearly he needs an intervention of some sort.

Cliff snags it back.

”I don't drool! Wait, this is not even here, this is in my own bed!” He storms out again, muttering something about searching Amanda's bedroom for more incriminating evidence, and Marc watches him go.

Cliff is the perfect answer of course. He should ask him to move in. There is nothing he wants more. But how can he? When Cliff asked him to move in with him, Marc had panicked, and slept with the first man who smiled at him. And then he'd asked Cliff to marry him, just because he felt guilty. He doesn't dare to take the chance of history repeating itself.

One early Sunday morning, after a sleepless night, he pulls on his robe and shuffles out into the kitchen, stumbling over one of Cliff's shoes on the way. He's heading for the sink when he suddenly stops in the middle of the room, stands absolutely still and looks around him. There are several cereal boxes on the counter, next to some empty beer bottles. The table in the corner is crammed with camera equipment. Cliff's sweater is lying on the sofa, his cheap brand of shampoo is in the shower, and if Marc opens the fridge he knows there will be actual food in there.

There's a low thundering in his ears, and he doesn't even notice Cliff coming up behind him, until his arms sneak around Marc's waist.

“What are you doing up this early?” Cliff mumbles and kisses his neck.

“You live here,” Marc says, stunned.

He can feel Cliff go still behind him. “What?”

“You live here,” Marc repeats. He twists around in Cliff's arms so that he's facing him.

“You've moved in.”

Cliff looks a bit sheepish. “Yeah. I have.”

“Oh.” Marc is feeling a little faint, and holds onto Cliff's hips.

“Are you okay?” Cliff is peering at him anxiously. “Do you need your inhaler?”

Marc shakes his head. “I'm fine. How did this happen?”

“Well, when I asked you to move in with me, it kind of ended in disaster, so I figured I'd just skip that step this time, and be a bit more sneaky about it.”

“I'm impressed.”

Cliff smiles. “I learned from the best. Do you mind?”

“I don't.” He puts his arms around Cliff's neck and draws him closer for a kiss. “I love you, but you've probably figured that out already.”

“Yeah,” Cliff says, his hands deftly untying Marc's robe. “I just don't want to buy a new fridge.”

He laughs as Marc pinches him hard, and then he kisses him quickly. “I love you too. Let's go back to bed.”

“So,” Marc says, as he willingly follows Cliff into the bedroom. “If I, hypothetically, sometime way, way off in the future, possibly maybe wanted to ask you to marry me, would I have to pretty much sneak the ring onto your finger?”

“Yeah,” Cliff confirms. “That might be troublesome, though. I want a ring at least the size of Amanda's.”

Marc sighs as he gets into bed, pulling Cliff with him. “Start thinking of new themes, then. I'm going to need another raise for that.”

“Eh, it can wait until tomorrow,” Cliff says. “It's Sunday!” He kisses Marc thoroughly. “Let's be good and gay.”

And so they are.